


Three Legged Race

by fallenxstarr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Character, Emotional Abuse, M/M, Muggle AU, No Harry Potter, Self Harm, Summer Camp AU, Summer Love, dad issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:15:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenxstarr/pseuds/fallenxstarr
Summary: Hogwarts Summer Camp is a place for the elite, but more than that it's a place for solace. Some find it in the yearly tournament, some find it in friendship. Neville finds it in the oppurtunity to test his growing sense of bravery. Draco's finding it hard to find at all.Maybe this year all of that will change.





	1. The Golden Boy's Eyes of Fire (prologue)

The tournament had been as brutal as ever this year- more so, even, after some of the other attendees had apparently complained. Well, the counselors had taken it to heart. Neville didn’t know why anybody would want to risk burning or drowning just for bragging rights, but he may have been the only one.

So many scowling faces, eyes heavy with exhaustion, were surrounding him, outnumbering those that seemed to actually be having fun. And in the front of them, like a self made prophet, was Draco Malfoy, flashing that self-righteous put-you-in-your-place grin he was so known for. He saw his father, easily spotted due to their shared white-blonde hair, politely clapping from behind, even as he turned towards a regal looking man Neville couldn’t at the moment attach to the many teenagers around him.

He blinked suddenly, realizing that he had been staring at Malfoy- he was staring back with fire in his eyes. He guessed he hadn’t looked as jealous and devoted as Malfoy liked the lesser people to look, something he couldn’t regret.

Once their gaze broke, he turned away, a bitter taste in his mouth. Draco Malfoy had hardly ever even spoken to him, and yet he always looked at him like that when he looked at him at all- like he was something so far beneath him he could squash him. Like he owned him, and they both knew it.

What was he going to be like when he was forced to leave this place? One day he was going to be too old for Hogwarts and he’d have to go into the real world, where everyone wasn’t 12 year olds shaking in their boots at the thought of you standing in front of them. His eyes travelled back over to Draco’s father. Nevermind. He’d always be able to buy and sell whoever he wanted. Looking back over at the boy, who thankfully was looking away from him again, he guessed that he’d always want to, too.

Some people just never learned to cope. Some people never had to.


	2. Back Again

He got out of his gran’s rental, stooping slightly as to not hit his head. All year he’d been waking up with pins and needles and with less and less clothes he could still wear. Even now he felt himself absent-mindedly pulling on the cuffs of his sleeves, as if afraid they would shrink and leave in a moment’s notice without him forcing them back to their proper place.  
One of the counselors was already getting his things out of the boot, and eyeing, he could easily guess, the small tank.  
“I’ll grab Trevor,” He told him brightly, and saw a small wave of relief rush over the very prim man before he hurried away from the boy and his toad.  
“I still don’t know why you insisted on bringing a toad to camp,” His gran said from inside the car. “It’s not as if there’s a shortage.”  
“There’s no one to feed him back home,” He pointed out, for the hundredth time.  
“Yes, what a tragedy that would have been.”  
He ignored her comment, content in knowing it had no real venom to it, and picked up his tank, cradling it in his arms. He could feel the large toad hopping around already, and it calmed him a bit.  
“I’ll see you in 10 weeks,” He told her, circling over to her car window.  
“Yes I know,” She said, as if irritated by the reminder, but still offered her cheek for a kiss goodbye. He beamed at her. Things had gotten so much easier between the two of them in the past few months. It almost made him feel like things were just waiting to get better.  
“10 weeks!” He said again, mostly to see her scowl.

 

He got to his cabin only moments after his bags did. It was the same cabin he’d been in since he’d been old enough to come to camp, and it felt genuinely nice to be back. He was struck again, as he often was throughout the years, by how lucky he was to have been put in this cabin at all. Not only was it populated by some of the least snobbish boys he could have imagined- Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and a scholarship case, Ron Weasley- but had the best sponsor.  
Each area of the field of cabins had a different sponsor, a leader in activities such as the tournament, and most importantly charities, fundraising, and all around schmoozing. There was Sprout, a kindly man who had always been nice to Neville when he’d seen him, but was so mild mannered he never managed to lead his group to do much of anything, or even remembered anyone’s name, beyond the other sponsors. Then there was Flitwick, who had always seemed intense beyond his exterior. He would bring his campers out to write journal articles and poetry later to be submitted to prestigious publications, but did it with a vigor Neville had never associated with the arts. He was also known to push his campers to “go behind his back” and practice past lights out once the tournament got into full swing. Then came Snape, Neville’s least favorite of the 4. He didn’t care about anyone but his own campers, to the point where there was whispers of foulplay. People liked to say that that’s why his campers wound up winning so often.  
The last of the sponsors, his own, was Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore was much older, and did not seem as intense as some of the others, but there was something almost dangerous about him. He’d protect them, and he’d push them, and sometimes he’d set them out on some very odd tasks that Neville never quite understood the point of, but by God, after all these years he’d gladly follow him through the gates of Hell. And, to be honest, he was almost expecting to be asked to.  
Another counselor bustled into the cabin with a large suitcase in his arms that looked like it might have been crimson a few family members’ ago. Behind him was the lanky redheaded boy, flushing slightly already.  
“Hiya Ron,” Neville greeted him. Ron always seemed a bit volatile, but he knew it was just because he was defensive. No matter how clear he made it, year after year, that he had no interest in being friends, Neville refused to stop speaking to him. It was one of the few “courageous” things he could give himself points for.  
Ron waved dully, awkwardly avoiding eye contact. He seemed disconnected, even for him.  
“Wotcha, Ron?” A voice called from the bed in the left corner.  
Seamus’ hand appeared, waving itself in a grand arc, as if signalling to someone incredibly far away.  
“Oops, sorry, Seamus,” Neville apologized, feeling the familiar uncomfortable feeling. “I didn’t realize you were there.”  
“Eh, it’s grand.” He sat up. “I’ve been here since last night. Mam had a few things to do today.”  
That uncomfortable feeling rose a little more. He’d never been quite sure how Seamus had gotten into the camp, especially without a scholarship that anyone knew of. There were rumors... Ones better to ignore. Definitely better to ignore. Because people liked to hurt each other the only ways they could.  
He forced a smile, and waited for it to become real.  
“Any sight of Dean yet?” Seamus asked, looking at both boys.  
“No, I don’t think so.”  
Ron shook his head as he unzipped his suitcase.  
“Well,” Seamus said, looking a little disappointed. “He’ll be here soon enough.”

Neville looked down at the tank he’d just remembered was still in his hands. Trevor staring up at him, as if memorizing the room for any escape routes.  
He set him down on the desk next to his bed, and tried to untangle his nerves. He always felt a bit awkward at the start of camp, something he’d never been able to really get over, but there was something else, mixed in with it. Everything had felt so much easier lately, a little... Well, it felt like maybe he was growing into something new.  
He felt himself blush slightly, embarrassed immediately at the thought of himself being some kind of emerging butterfly. Still, if his relationship with Gran could get so much better, not to mention his grades, and mum....  
Despite himself, he grinned.  
“I think I’ll take a look around,” He told the others, no longer interested in unpacking.  
“Yeah?” Seamus swung his legs over the bed. “I’ll come with.”

 

Everything looked the same, with the exception of the new stage in Sprout’s area. He’d been pushing for that for longer than Neville thought any of the current campers had even been coming. It was the same excitement in the air, the same sprawling buildings, the same celebratory green paint on the dining hall, give or take a few new coats. When Neville had first come to camp he’d left with the hall a victorious crimson. He wanted it that color again so badly it felt like a part of him. Of course, that’s how most people felt.  
He saw Seamus sneer at the dining hall as well, and a strange sense of unity washed over him that he rarely felt.  
“Mr. Longbottom! Mr. Finnigan!” A man approached them, beaming. He was a very large man and the polar opposite to most of the patrons and counselors. Groundskeeper Hagrid was more openly affectionate than Neville was comfortable with, but he still liked the man.  
“Hiya, Groundskeeper,” Seamus said with a small wave.  
“Make sure to come to the bonfire tonight, eh?” He told them. “Welcome back, lads.”  
“Yeah, thank you, Hagrid!” Neville told him.

“Ah,” Seamus said moments later.  
“What?” Neville turned to ask, but found Seamus already gone. He looked around for a second before spotting Dean Thomas. Well, that meant there was no point in waiting for Seamus to come back.  
It was no matter, anyway. He always felt a bit like he was holding his breath when he was with the other boys- even when they were just walking together. Even when it was just Seamus. It wasn’t like it was...  
Draco was walking towards his cabin as if the ground beneath him was gold and only he was worthier than it. He’d gotten a little taller as well, though Neville thought with a slight shock that he was actually the taller one now, but even from this distance he could see that the main change to him was his build. Where Neville had always looked wiry, Draco looked as if he could build his own house by hand.  
Great.  
De-ja vu flooded him like a lightning strike, as their eyes met, once again caught staring. Draco’s eyes were wide, as if deep in thought, and they flickered as if struggling to land on simply one emotion. And then they were taken over again, by that same look.  
Neville dragged his gaze away, annoyed with himself and everything else in the damn world. He turned back towards his own cabin, resisting the urge to run.  
As he walked, he could still feel Draco Malfoy’s eyes burning into him.


	3. His Homes, His Futures

He watched Neville Longbottom scramble away, as obviously uncomfortable as ever. Half his attention was on the squirrelly boy, vaguely annoyed just by his presence, but the rest was still at home.  
His father had been more forceful, sharper, than he had found himself expecting. Usually as it came closer to his time at Hogwarts, his father would relax. It was something that would probably have offended him if he wasn’t so relieved.  
His father would stop watching him quite as closely, or making him learn his part better as the social world changed around them. He knew Draco knew what to do at camp, knew there were enough people loyal to him there who would be willing to cover any incident even if it turned out he didn’t. Not that either of them expected it to get to that point.  
No, things were different this year, and their almost easy way of avoiding each other was replaced with the same strained, frenzied existence he knew the rest of the year. His father was being looked into- though the details were not made clear to Draco, he knew enough to be aware that it was both dangerous and all too justifiable. This alone would make Lucius Malfoy hard to live with, but combined with the news of the girl’s camp’s new co-owner seemed to put all weight on Draco’s shoulders.  
Dolores Umbridge was high up in the ministry, fairly knowledgeable and potentially empathetic of his father’s affairs, and in the perfect position to be swayed by Draco. No matter how little Draco wanted to be a part of it at all.  
Hogwarts was supposed to be his reward for getting through his time at home. And yes, he knew that that was not the way his parents saw it, and of course was not truly the relaxed freedom he pretended it was, but for the past 4 years it had been close enough to it. It was getting all too clear that his time here was on the edge of ending.  
There were several possible endings that he could see. First, there was the possibility of him disregarding his family’s wishes all together. In this option he would enjoy his time here, never talk to Umbridge if he could help it, and, undoubtedly, never come back. Probably earn some injuries. Probably lose what freedom he had. So option two: he talked to Umbridge, was not good enough to convince her, and his father went to jail. There would be no reason for him to return, unless he could convince his mother it would look good for the family. Which she most likely wouldn’t buy. Or three: he focused his energy on Umbridge, he won the tournament, and was perfect. He would single-handedly keep his father out of jail, keep him in his home, pretend to love him, and buy himself 2 more years here.  
There wasn’t much choice when it came down to it.

He steeled himself for the vapid conversation that always colored the first day back in the cabins.  
“I’m just sayin,” Crabbe was insisting in the middle of the room as Draco came back through the door.  
“There’s no way,” Theodore Nott protested. “I don’t care if they’re foreign, a beautiful girl wouldn’t jump to be with you, Crabbe, and I’d rather die than believe that two did.”  
“You’re one to speak, Rabbit,” Crabbe shot back.  
Theodore smiled boldly, showing off his large teeth with a slightly argumentative look in his eye.  
He waited for Crabbe to start more trouble, and when he didn’t sat easily down on his bed as if nothing had happened at all.  
“Well, I spent the beginning of my summer travelling with my dad and his associates,” He told them.  
The boys were intentionally very silent, knowing “dad and associates” meant something along the lines of “the mob”.  
Theodore picked up on this and shrugged, not one to defend the lifestyle he was born into. “I got to see a fair amount of Italy and Greece.”  
“What about you, Draco?” Goyle asked.  
Normally he could shrug and turn his boredom into a sense of intrigue, or at least turn one of his better moments into a good story. Today however, with his arm still aching slightly from where his father had been grabbing it, he didn’t have the concentration to blend in with all the easiness and glamour.  
He turned from the bedside table he had been pretending to preoccupy himself with and met Goyle’s eyes a little too defiantly.  
“I’m not going to leak my father’s secrets just because Nott does.”  
“We-”  
“I’m going to lunch,” He said acidly, and left before anyone could point out how little sense he was making, or what a spectacle he was making of himself.

He circled the dining hall a few times, and tried to distract himself. He wished there was more to do, something to keep him too busy to think. He wished the tournament had already started. Or at least the bonfire. Or lunch.  
Of course, if he had really wanted food he could have gotten it, the kitchen workers knew who he was and that it was better for them all if they helped him. But he was hoping the sea of people and the chaos they always seemed to bring with them would make him feel more like he was really here, and not back in his parents’ home.  
Part of him wished he hadn’t stormed out of his cabin. They weren’t so bad to talk to when you didn’t want to kill them. Another part of him was just relieved to be away from anyone who wanted any answers at all. Still, it would have been nice to have talked mindlessly about something, like Crabbe’s ridiculous lies. Girls or movies or the dumb pranks that got planned nearly every year but never managed to happen.  
He hadn’t really given thought to how lonely he was- had been since coming home. Before that, even.  
He shook his head without thinking. He was letting himself get too deep into his own head. At this rate, he was going to go back to his bed, pull up his sleeves, and pour out all the secrets he could possibly be keeping. He felt like he might tell anything to anyone who didn’t seem like they would think to ask.  
It was a good thing, he thought, that nobody was around, then. Well, nobody but Neville Longbottom, who he kept catching glimpses of as he moved back and forth doing God knows what.  
He felt like tripping him. He was always moving, always looking like he had thought about everything more than you had even considered doing, and it made him want to hit him for no good reason.  
He couldn’t see his face as he weaved through buildings for the tenth time, but he would have bet half his trust that he looked anxious and deep in thought. And that he would have turned the other way and rushed away if he had seen Draco.  
Years ago he would go out of his way to let Neville know how he felt about him, how useless he thought it was for him to even be there. Their entire first year he had taken every opportunity to try to drive the constantly trembling boy out of this place that embraced him so, that only had room for one daydream. As his second year made its progression, he let his focus shift, and convinced his brain to stop dwelling on Neville Longbottom the way it was so used to. It had been a long time since he had even talked to the boy, but he was still so afraid of him, still the trembling eleven year old.  
The thought of it relaxed Draco. He still had power somewhere.  
Not everything was changing- he didn’t have to change. It was going to work out. He was staying.


	4. With a Bang

Neville was walking with his shoes grinding into the ground like ice skates, mud flying up in lazy lumps, beige trainers turning slowly into rubbish. It was the combination of running and dragging one's feet that was perfected by Neville, who, to his credit, was at least not staring at the ground. He was tracing the buildings with his eyes, and the stones and bricks that made them up, and the crevices in each of them. Every so often he would look at the sky, look for the sun, then let his eyes dart away again as it started to burn red holes in his vision. Some would call this boredom, or even depression, if he thought much about it at all he’d have called it meditation.  
It wasn’t that he couldn’t think in his bed, in his cabin with the others, not exactly, but it was like reciting half remembered poetry in the middle of a mob- pointless, tiring, and too hard to keep track. He liked thinking on his feet, anyway. He’d mentioned this to Ron once, when trying to make conversation, and Ron had actually opened to his mouth to ask him why he always seemed to avoid phys ed then. He’d made some complaint about running, mainly because he hadn’t thought about it and didn’t want to start talking about himself that much anyway. In reality, though, he did like running. He just didn’t like feeling like he had to. It all felt like being chased, being cornered, even in open fields, even if the only thing making you run was the sound of a silver whistle.  
And he didn’t like being watched. Ever, really, but he hated it most of all when during physical exercise. All the other boys were staring and laughing, and the counselors looked disappointed or amused. He didn’t like people thinking about him at all. Or... Well, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, now. If he gave them a good reason. If they were the right people. He realized with not a jolt, but something like a small shock in his gut, that he wasn’t so afraid of them talking about him. He let himself consider that maybe, maybe it could a good thing.  
He didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before. He liked to talk to people- well, the people who didn’t sneer at him- but he’d always imagined he’d stopped existing to them when he had left their sight. It was a child’s thought, he knew. But that was that- sometimes he barely existed to himself. But not this summer. This summer it was like he was suddenly real. “Coming into his own” Gran had said.  
Yeah. Maybe being talked about wasn’t the worst thing. Not always. Being watched. By some people. Every so often.  
And then, his theory was tested.  
Because of course- of course- Draco Malfoy was looking at him, _sneering_ at him, like a dog daring you to come closer. Neville’s eyes started to drop to the ground in defense, but he kept them up, suddenly hating the idea of looking away. He stood his ground.  
Draco advanced, slow, long strides towards him, and his stomach flipped, eyes falling to the mud. So much for bravery. Looked like it was coming in small doses.  
“Longbottom,” He said in his poison drawl. His eyes were travelling up and down Neville like he was looking for his weakest point.  
Neville didn’t answer, unsure if it was because he didn’t want to or because he couldn’t. There was something different about Draco but he wasn’t sure what. He looked... almost wild. Not unhinged or out of control- so perfectly in control. Always dangerous, always mean. Nothing really seemed changed, but... It was his eyes, he thought. They were colder. More distant. Like a wolf in the zoo remembering what it was like to be free, seconds from pouncing on its keeper to get to that freedom.  
Neville realized he was staring. At least he wasn’t looking at the ground. At least he wasn’t shaking. He smiled in some twisted, confused instinctual response. Draco’s lip curled, eyes sharper, and Neville’s hands started doing something by themselves, floating up and down like paper ships, mutiny against the still absent brain. His mouth popped open a little like a confused cassette player.  
Draco Malfoy punched him directly in the face.

~

Neville sat on his bed, feet firmly on the floor, elbows digging into his arched knees. He had a bag of frozen pees on his jaw, which was on fire now that the shock had passed. Draco fucking Malfoy. The prat.  
Ron was staring at him from his own bed, as if Neville was about to start yelling, or maybe Draco was going to storm in and finish him off. Dean and Seamus were probably out making theories. This was, after all, unprecedented. Not someone being punched, or Draco being a complete arse, but Draco hadn’t ever “physically assaulted” someone here, as the nurses had called it. If he’d fought anyone at all, it was from on top of his ivory tower, calling his men forward like dim pawns on a chess board.  
And out of nowhere, he’d just fucking _decked_ him. And he hadn’t even done anything! Well, except smile. But who gets set off by being smiled at? Other than an aggressive monkey.  
The wooden door banged shut as Seamus and Dean walked in, still chattering under their breath.  
“How’s the face, Neville?” Seamus asked, a little too cheerfully.  
“My teeth hurt,” Neville answered simply. He wished he had closed his mouth before Draco’d had a chance to swing.  
Seamus frowned sympathetically but then turned back around, surely smiling again. They were changing from their t-shirts into something nicer. Their “middle range” clothes, as they liked to call them. The fancy things were saved for the start of summer and end of summer feast. Tonight was only the unofficial start, the bonfire. Still, if you showed up wearing anything deemed “bummy” there’d be plenty of judgement.  
Neville stretched his legs out, moving the peas from mouth.  
“Ah, wicked,” Seamus breathed, grinning.  
“That bad?” He asked.  
“It makes you look right badass.”  
Neville shrugged, uncomfortable. No one was going to think he was a badass. They were going to know he was an idiot who stood in front of Malfoy, smiled at him, and hadn’t lifted a hand to defend himself. Like a coward.  
He sighed.  
“Can’t skip the bonfire,” Dean said over his shoulder, like he knew exactly what Neville was thinking.  
“I guess.”  
“No guessing, you can’t.” He turned back around to smile at him. “Even if you’re a badass now.”  
Neville smiled despite himself.  
“Alright, fine.”  
He put the peas down on the chestnut dresser next to his bed, and worried for a moment about water damage before letting his exhaustion at his whole life push that anxiety away. There were better things to worry about. He slipped off his shirt, and pulled on a new one. Like the tournament. He tied his dark red tie clumsily. And if his teeth were going to fall out. He walked to the door behind Dean, hiding a grimace. And avoiding Draco Malfoy for the rest of the summer.


	5. Non-Ivory Towers

The fire was glinting off the silver watches of the boys who were flashing them, but still not high in the dark sky. Counselors were stoking it, two of them cursing softly and juvenily under their breath, the boys pretending they didn’t notice.  
Though he didn’t like to admit it, the bonfire was Draco’s favorite part of summers here. He was sure that the start of the tournament was assumed to be in that place. The truth was, he did like the competition, like he liked all competitions he thought he could win, but he liked this better. He liked to observe.  
Boys were sprawled around him, not quite chaotically enough to be called haphazard, more like a mob in a play. They were carefully placed, organized and clean even with their feet up and their bodies shaking from laughter. Happy, but contained.  
Later, after some of the youngers would go off to bed, they’d get looser, and they’d do something stupid, and the counselors would chide them but hide it away. Tradition.  
Draco frowned. He’d already done something stupid. And, unfortunately, it would be too hard for someone to just hide it away, not let his father know. Not even Snape- if Snape wanted to hide it at all. He was a friend of his father’s. If you could call anyone his father’s friend.  
He tried to distract himself, watching the flames grow, the counselor’s relieved and self satisfied looks, the boys saying something hidden under their breath. But his mind kept cycling back around to it.  
Why in the world had he punched Neville Longbottom?  
On the surface level, he knew. Neville was, and always had been, an idiot. And there was always something in him that wanted to make sure that he knew it. That much was a given. And then he’d been standing there, looking like he had just stumbled in the middle of nowhere, just standing there. Draco had thought he would run. When he didn’t he could admit it had annoyed him. He liked predictability.  
And then, _and then_ , the pillock had smiled at him. And he’d been taken aback. It was like he’d insulted him, but a hundred times worse. He didn’t know why.  
And he was reaching out to him, like he was going to grab him. Touch him. Smiling. Like an idiot. Like he wasn’t being threatened. Like he was... Like he was... in power.  
He hadn’t even realized he’s reacted until his fist made contact with Longbottom’s top teeth. They’d cut his knuckles. Insult to injury.  
At least, when it was all done, Neville had dropped to his knees. That had helped a bit, even though he knew it was mainly from shock. Hell, Draco was in shock too. Not that anybody had cared.  
He’d simply walked back to his cabin, wrapped up his hand, and waited for someone to burst in. It had been Snape. Well, first it had been a counsellor, who knocked, and, as surprised as the rest of them, asked if he had assaulted Neville Longbottom. And then, almost immediately, Snape.  
He was mainly upset that Draco had done it in front of the entire school. He didn’t even ask why it had happened. He just asked how. _How_ could he have done something so stupid? _How_ could he have forgotten how important this all was? _How_ could he have forgotten they were on thin ice as it was. He was asking himself the same questions.  
He was flexing his fists without thinking, a dull pain rising up from his knuckles. He guessed that more than anything, he was sick of the anger. He was used to it, to some extent, _being_ angry, but never to holding it this much. He was used to the looser leash allowing him to go somewhere, get it out, come back clean and ready to take in more. This summer it had piled up and filled him and had nowhere to go. It still had nowhere to go.  
So he wasn’t surprised, now that he could look at it all from a safe distance. And he guessed that he regretted it because of course it was a stupid thing to do, and he’d be watched closer than he liked now, but it didn’t feel like anything worse than what was sure to happen tonight. Just stupid behavior and teenage boys. Just blowing off a little steam before things got official.  
He stared at the flames again, ignoring his eyes burning. It was reaching up further than the sky now, reaching up like it was trying to set heaven ablaze. He hoped it would find a way.  
His fingers found the loops of chain in his pocket, and he ran his the tip of his finger of it mindlessly. He was breathing slower, staring deeper, wishing for a moment that he was back in his cabin. He wanted to relax. He wanted to slouch.  
He let his eyes drift away from the fire, and they tinged everything orange and red. He moved from boy to boy, tracing their dipping heads like skylines. There was something like tension in the air, but less ready to snap. He breathed it in.  
Longbottom was sitting to the left of the fire pit, in flames eating the spaces between him and the boy. He stared at him from between the tongues of fire, knowing he would feel that pressure on the back of his head, knowing he would have to turn. He didn’t.  
He bit down, hard, teeth locked together, and continued to look around, no longer as peaceful. He knew he could make him look at him if he really wanted to. It was just that he didn’t. What would be the point? He just didn’t like the fact that he was being ignored. That of all people Neville Longbottom could ignore him.  
He wanted to be in his cabin, laying with his legs sticking off the bed undignified and relaxed. But that felt a million miles away, because of course he couldn’t leave first, not without someone watching him, not without a dozen boys expecting to have some story to prattle off the next day. And of course he couldn’t leave, not now that this felt like a standoff. Not with Longbottom sitting like a half-formed statue and Snape watching him square his jaw from the corner of his eye.  
This was just like father’s speeches, and watching them inspect his home. He put on his “event” face of polite boredom, and returned his gaze to the fire.  
It felt like it was going to build itself into a tower so high it would fall back to earth. But, he wondered, which direction would it fall?


	6. Waves

Neville sat on his bed with his back against the wood wall, his knees high mountains in front of him, holding his pocket radio in his lap. He’d stuck the cheap pair of earbuds that he’d shoved in his luggage into the radio, and into his own ears only moments after turning it on, when Seamus had made a loud noise of objection from his bed.  
Seamus always meant to stay up for Dean’s morning radio show, and most summers he would succeed for a least the first few weeks. It was later on that he’d start to sleep too hard to even try to wake up, having been out until 5 am. He’d started early this year with the bonfire. Neville wasn’t sure when he’d actually gotten in, but was sure how little he wanted to be awake, so he left him to it.  
Dean’s voice was soft and happy in his ears. He really loved his radio show. He’d taken over for an older boy, Lee, after “interning” with him two years ago, and it was one of the few things he truly cared about. He wasn’t one to put a lot energy in the things he didn’t love completely.  
Almost without thinking, Neville glanced back over at Seamus. He was twisted up in the off white cover like a natural disaster, the dark red afghan that came with every bed messily kicked to the floor with his shoes. Even in sleep he looked like a powder keg.  
Neville rested his head against the wall again, closing his eyes. Dean was talking about football with a zeal that clashed with the very early hour, lovingly prattling on about West Ham. After a moment he laughed, and a song came on abruptly. Neville couldn’t place it, but it had a strong bass line and a soft, confident male voice carrying it towards him. It fit together in a way that made him yearn, with strange sort of pulling in his chest. He let it settle over him as peacefully as it could until the song was through.  
“Ah, sorry,” Dean was saying in his ear buds, laughter still coloring hjs voice. “I forgot this was supposed to be a music programme.”  
And with that, another song started. This time it was more like folk, but louder. More incessant. Neville thought he’d ask Dean about it when he saw him later, then let the thought go. Dean loved music almost as much as he loved football, and if you got him going about it, he’d never stop. Unlike with football and art, the only way he could do anything with that passion was to talk your ear off about it.  
He remembered the summer Dean had brought a cherry red guitar with him to camp. He’d been so proud until he had actually tried to play it. Seamus thought he just needed more practice, and Neville thought he was probably right, but Dean had denounced it. He sometimes caught him looking wistfully at the keyboards and drums they took out for events, looking like he’d trade most anything to be able to play music. For now, though, he was content just playing other people’s.  
Seamus groaned again from his sheet wreckage and threw his body half off the bed.  
“Alright there, Seamus?” Neville asked, but he got no response but another loud groan. He got up and placed a bottle of water by the boy’s bed.

Seamus was still knackered at 8, when their official first breakfast started. Neville and Ron had had to practically pick him up out of bed. He’d drained the water in one go.  
Even now he was rubbing his sleep bruised eyes with his fists, stalling the line. Neville headed to the table Dean was already sitting at with a few others, and Seamus sluggishly followed.  
“Good programme today, Dean,” Neville told him, sitting.  
“Thanks,” He answered brightly. “It is nice to back.” He looked at the sleepy, ruffled boy next to Neville with a bemused expression. “Didya listen, Shay?”  
Seamus blinked blearily. “What?”  
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Well, thanks for listening, Neville.”  
Neville dug into his oatmeal, listening to the chatter around him. His eyes raised off of his bowl as he lifted the spoon up to his mouth, and then immediately looked away.  
Draco Malfoy was at the long table next to theirs, and directly across from Neville’s seat. He looked back down at his bowl, determined not to catch his eye. Even if the universe kept pushing them together, he would hold onto his resolve. After all, avoiding Draco was the safest option there was.  
Once finished eating, having lost some of his appetite to his now nervous stomach, he pushed his chair away from the table.  
“Leaving, Neville?” Dean asked.  
“Going for a walk, I think,” He answered, and made his way to the door, eyes locked ahead of him.  
The air was surprisingly cold on his bruised face, the wind pushing into his split bottom lip. His teeth still hurt.  
If it had been anyone other than Draco Malfoy to start a fight on the first day of camp, he would have been surprised at the lack of punishment. Instead he was just sick of the whole thing. No one got Draco in trouble- not serious trouble, at least. He had too many friends of the family around.  
He hadn’t “started a fight”, anyway, he had to admit. Just punched someone once and that was it. Not much of a fight for either of them. Neville guessed that he’d been lucky. It definitely could have gone worse. Sometimes it felt like Draco was a lawnmower trying to cut everyone down who had the misfortune of catching his eye.  
To be honest, he was half expecting to be punished himself. It didn’t make sense, not logically, but his old jumpy anxiety was hard to shake, especially after such a sudden attack. He hadn’t gotten into any fights in the 4 year before this, and had gotten in only minimal trouble with Snape, which was always frightening but didn’t count against a person, as most everybody did. So it was hard to believe that after being “involved in a fight” as his school back home would have called it, there’d be absolutely no repercussions. Even if they weren’t going to do more than speak to Draco it didn’t mean they would leave it to rest entirely.  
He jumped at the sight of a counselor in his peripheral. She gave him the kind of polite smile you gave strangers on the street or women with children that wanted too much to do with you. A smile that said absolutely nothing about either of you except that you’d noticed each other and were most likely eager to stop noticing each other and get back to your lives. Somehow he doubted she even knew his name.  
Maybe being in trouble wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Gran had always wanted him to do more, push himself. He was sure that this wasn’t what she had meant. “Make waves, but make them well,” was her average parting wisdom. But he got it, at the moment. And he wasn’t sure how to follow her advice.  
If someone came to him, gave him lines or a suspension for events, it would at least mean he’d been acknowledged. It would mean he’d “made waves”, for what felt like the first time. He’d never felt more like a background character in his own life.  
He stiffened again as another figure moved past him, this time a boy about a year older than him. He didn’t look at Neville at all, but moved with purpose towards the dining hall. If he’d been punished, he’d probably have fainted. He probably still would.  
If Snape approached him right now, with his regular glare, he would have ran before he’d even realized he was moving at all. That would have made a mark, wouldn’t it? Making waves, not making them well. But, he was a coward. He couldn’t expect that all to change.  
He jumped as yet another person came up behind him, this one stopping by his shoulder.  
“Alright, Neville?” Ron asked, awkwardly.  
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.”  
They stood in silence for a moment. It settled uncomfortably around their shoulders.  
“Good.. walk?” Ron asked.  
“Yeah, yeah. Nice...air.”  
“Yeah.”  
Ron looked past him for a second and Neville fought the urge to whip around and see who was coming. Then Ron looked back at him.  
“Heading back?’  
“Yeah.”  
They walked together in broken silence, Neville too far in his own worried mind to even fully appreciate that Ron was speaking. By the time they reached their cabin door, his mind was too full of scenarios and annoyances aimed at himself, that he found it hard to respond to Ron at all.  
He sat on his bed a minute before giving up and lying down. Seamus had had the right idea. It was always better to just be asleep.

~

Neville had spent most of the day in bed. He’d taken several more walks, but as the day went on there had been more and more people to startle him, and eventually he settled back in to the cabin. Dean and Seamus had moved in and out together every hour or so until they’d started to change for the start of summer feast.  
Neville looked up from the potted plants on his window sill, to watch them pick at each other’s wardrobes. Ron was already dressed and look miserable, as he always did in his hand me down “top tiers”. Neville felt bad for him. The boy was quiet and angry without wearing shirts too worn out and large for him.  
He got up, slowly, from his favorite succulent and began to dress himself. As he pulled his shirt on, he focussed in on Dean and Seamus’ conversation.  
“This year is our year,” Seamus was saying, confidently.  
“That’s what you say _every_ year, Shay.”  
“Ah, but this year I’m right.”  
Dean just laughed.  
“Don’t you think?” Seamus pushed.  
“Oh, I don’t know. I can just hope.”  
“What do you think?” Seamus leaned past Dean, to speak to Ron.  
Ron shrugged, and then, after a few second, spoke. “Dunno. Same as Dean I guess.”  
“Oh, come on, why can’t anybody _feel it_?”  
“Because then we’d all be as hopelessly optimistic as you are,” Dean told him.  
“Well, it’s been years...” Ron continued, arms twisting themselves in knots.  
“Exactly! It’s a comeback!” He looked over at Neville. “Nev! Don’tcha think?”  
Neville grinned and didn’t speak, still putting on his shoes. He stood up and thought for a second. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”  
Seamus laughed triumphantly. “You and me, Nev. We know.”

They walked down to the dining hall as a cabin, the air filled with static excitement as well as the other boys’ laughter. Other boys were walking together too, and their talk bounced back into each others airs, all circling around the same subject- the tournament.  
This was the night every year where the tournament officially opened. It was done in teams of 3, apparently so that “socialization would be encouraged”, meaning that at least one person from every cabin was forced to go talk to someone they didn’t live with.  
He’d been so afraid his first year. It seemed obvious that he would be the one kicked out of the cabin’s group. Dean and Seamus had hit it off early on, and Ron wasn’t too social but not as awkward as Neville had always been. When they’d grouped together it suddenly felt like Ron had been picked, and he graciously mumbled something about finding another group before anyone had had to say it out loud. Every year since they had switched between Ron and Seamus, and each year they found new people to band together with. This year Ron was out again. Neville felt bad, like every year, but he could never get the nerve to volunteer to find a new group. The idea of it was too terrifying. He could feel the rejection already.  
They settled in at the same long table they’d sat at for dinner, waiting for the food to be put out. Once it was, they pounced like hungry tigers, Neville included. He really had let his nerves get the best of him at breakfast. Now he refused to look up past his cabin mates at all, eliminating the risk.  
“Welcome,” Dumbledore began from his place at the front of the hall. With that one word, the boys quieted. “back to another summer at Hogwarts. And welcome, of course, to our newest attendants. As you know, the annual tournament begins in two weeks. I’m sure you’re all anxious to get started, so be sure to sign up as soon as possible. As always, sign ups for teams of three begin tonight and continue on for three more days. Once it is lights out on the third day, sign ups are closed. In other news, Caretaker Filch has asked us to remind you that the official list of banned items is posted on his office door, and that ownership of any of them will be swiftly punished.” He smiled at this, almost dreamily. He really was odd. “Our sister camp has also been in contact, as their new owner is very enthusiastic about socializing our campers. There will be multiple joint events with them, which will be further elaborated on in the coming weeks. For now, enjoy your dinner, and try not to start any fights.” He winked, and sat down.  
Dean already had the half-form in front of him, and was pencilling in his own name along with Seamus and Neville’s. He stood up so quickly he almost bounced, flashing another bright grin at the lot of them.  
“This year is the year. I can feel it.”


	7. Wolves

Draco watched Goyle aggressively tear into the paper with the tip of his pen, signing them up as a group again this year. Nott was already talking to his own group, who was sitting next to the three of them, smiling at each other like wild things excited to show their true nature. All of them were family friends,  
“I hope the tournament’s a bit _harder_ this year,” Goyle said loudly, rousing Draco.  
“Why? So you can mess up the relay even worse?” Crabbe shot at him.  
Goyle glowered at him. “At least I can stand my own, unlike you.”  
“Shut up, both of you,” Draco demanded, sick of their prattling. He wasn’t surprised when they complied without complaint. When it came down to it there was no question that he was the strongest competitor between them. If there was a single reason they’d won these past few years, he knew they all silently agreed it was Draco.  
Still, Crabbe looked like he wanted to fight something, and Draco caught the flash of _something_ in his eyes, like kindling for a fire. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not when it was clear he’d decided to focus his attention on sneaking out instead of breaking someone’s nose.  
As the others trickled out of the hall, they stood unobtrusively at the corners of the crowd, envelope by it but able to break free. Crabbe had a hand in his pants pocket and Draco thought he saw a flash of silver from between the fabric.  
The crowd moved forward, pushing them closer to the front. Crabbe’s hand returned to its less alarming position beside his leg, and Goyle leaned forward looking slightly ridiculous. They made to move forward, intermingling with those moving to cabins farther from notice, Draco moving confidently forward. However, as he scanned the crowd, Snape caught his eye. The man looked as disapproving as if he were a different student, and shook his head almost unnoticeably, a warning.  
Draco took a breath, and moved to look for Crabbe and Goyle, but Goyle had disappeared from sight and Crabbe was already past the doors. He shrugged to himself. The warning had only been given to him, so they were fine, or they weren’t necessarily meant to be spared. Either way, he’d see them in the morning, probably looking worse for the wear, and hopefully not dead.

~

When Draco awoke it was to a combination of his alarm and the undignified voices in his cabin. He sat up to see Nott talking to a boy from a different cabin, Blaise Zabini.  
“What is going on?” Draco asked, annoyed and still slightly sleep addled.  
“Crabbe and Goyle,” Nott responded simply. He grinned as he watched Draco, pleased, he guessed to make him wait or struggle with the unhelpful information.  
Finally, he decided to give up and ask. He pulled the blanket off himself, swinging his legs over the bed.  
“What-”  
The question was cut off by the opening of the door.  
Snape stood in the doorway, menacing as always, for a moment before walking towards them.  
“Zabini,” He said coldly, and Blaise managed to only slightly flinch at the sound. “you are not supposed to be in anyone else’s cabins between 10 am and 8 pm. It is only 7:30. Do you need to be tied to a clock?”  
“Sorry, sir. I was only coming to soothe poor Thomas.” He spoke his lies smoothly. “He was worried about his cabin mates and I thought I might have overheard something about it so I wanted to let him know. He gets nervous when he’s left in the dark.”  
“And what have you heard?”  
“Nothing true, I’m sure. But I thought even hearing the rumors could relax him some.”  
Snape frowned but Blaise said nothing more. Draco expected him to make the boy repeat the rumors exactly, but it seemed there were more important things on his mind. “Out.”  
Zabini followed the order swiftly.  
“Draco,” Snape said. “come with me.”  
He looked down at his pajama bottoms and bare chest and faltered for a second, but when Snape said no more, he stood and followed him as he was. Snape led him past the cabin, following the backs of them so as not to be seen, and hurried him to his own cabin.  
The cabins the Sponsors had were large, almost the size of those 4 boys were meant to live in together, and more grandiose. As they kept the same cabins each summer, they were also more personally decorated. Draco new the inside of Snape’s as well as he knew the set up of his own. He was used to check ups much like these, though usually less rushed and not so early in the morning.  
Snape closed the door behind them and stared at Draco for several long moments. To others it would have looked simply like disapproval, but Draco knew it to be multiple emotions under the surface, held back for consideration before showing any of them. What he did think he could parse from the man’s long gaze, was worry.  
“What did they do?” Draco asked.  
“Manners,” Snape replied, though not nearly as harshly as he had spoken to Zabini.  
Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was too tired for this. Still, for the good of his future, his family, and his relationship with the man, he tried to swallow down all of his frustrations. They formed a fight knot in his stomach.  
“I’m sorry, sir.”  
Snape sighed, almost a groan. “Your father is displeased.”  
Draco felt his anger rising and struggled again to stay calm. “What else is new?”  
“Be respectful.”  
“I’m sorry, sir,” He said again, from between his teeth.  
Snape was silent.  
“‘Displeased’,” Draco said, taking the silence as an invitation. “as in disappointed, or displeased as in...”  
“Furious,” Snape supplied him.  
The knot in his stomach pulled itself tighter, and throbbed in time with his not frantic heart. To add to the panic, his arm hurt again, though he tried to silently convince himself that that didn’t make sense.  
“Because of my ‘assault’.”  
“Because of your use of violence,” Snape corrected him. “which was foolhardy, impossibly unnecessary, and beneath your family name.” Draco twisted his arms in front of his chest as Snape repeated key parts of his lecture from yesterday. “He was already considering action from that alone.”  
“What’s happened now?” Draco asked, picking up on the phrasing.  
“Your cabin mates have done something even more thuggish than your own attack on Longbottom. Last night they snuck out, as I am sure you know, and when they reached the woods surrounding our camp, decided to go hunting.”  
“Hunting?”  
“It seems they killed a squirrel and a bear cub. Though the hunting of certain creatures is not against the rules here, and they used only a hunting knife-” Draco silently cursed, remembering the flash of silver. He’d just thought it a flask. “it is still boorish and disturbing. They are being spoken with right now, and will most likely only have to be seen by the psychologist, which I am aware will not be a new experience for either of them.”  
Draco waited as Snape paused, but the pause did not break, so he pushed his question. “And?”  
“And?” Snape drawled.  
“Why is father ‘furious’ over the death of a bear cub?”  
“It is not the bear cub,” Snape answered, his suddenly rise in volume make Draco jump against his will. “It is that his own son has made it clear that he is not above being a thug, no matter how it reflects on him or his family. Even if you managed to make people forget about your actions you must know it is in the records and _will_ come back to him as soon as it can be held against him as relevant information. And now that those that you’ve decided to let be associated with you, your ‘best friends’, are torturing and killing _the day_ after your assault, it is starting to look like a pattern. It’s starting to say something about your character.”  
“They aren’t my best friends,” Draco said, because it was the first thing he could think to respond to. “They’re who I’ve been forced next to. He can’t blame-”  
“He does. You can’t pretend you haven’t been seen with them enough. It doesn’t matter.”  
“Maybe if you hadn’t stopped me from going with them,” Draco tried now. “I could have stopped them.”  
“Or maybe things would have gone a different way.”  
Draco wasn’t sure what he was implying, but didn’t want to linger any longer on the thought.  
“You’re to change partners.”  
“What?” The anger spiked in him, and this time he couldn’t keep it out of his voice.  
“Zabini has already been asked to take your place.” His gaze on Draco softened a fraction. “You can’t afford the association.”  
Draco swore, fists at his side, and Snape let it slide.  
“You still have 2 days to find a more reputable group. You can win with them, instead.”  
Draco made himself nod. When Snape seemed to have no more to say, he nodded again, attempting politeness, and found his way out of the cabin  
He walked in a daze.  
They truly were idiots. He couldn’t say he was surprised by the knife, not in Crabbe having brought one to Hogwarts at least, nor the dead animals. They were bloodthirsty in their way, primal and desperate. What had shaken him was the word “torture”. He didn’t want to think about what exactly had been done.  
Though he’d argued against it, they were his friends, and though he didn’t think them saints, or even good people, he didn’t like to think of them as torturers. Though, of course, that’s what many of the people he’d gotten to know over the years turned out to be. Maybe he just didn’t like seeing it happen so slowly, to 11 year old boys.  
He felt like their babysitter more than their friend. He cared about them, in his own way, and he thought they were close, for his own standards, but it was frustration at them for not being able to watch themselves that tasted like copper in his mouth. It wasn’t that he had had faith in them, but he had hoped they’d had just a bit of common sense.  
But they weren’t children, and they weren’t men. They were wolves, and though they had followed him when he’d been there to make him, that didn’t change their nature.  
His mind returned to Snape’s own answer to his argument, and the implications enfolded in it. He wondered, unable to stop himself, if underneath what had been built up around him and for him, the dignified guise they had dressed him with, he was a wolf too.  
He heard a disapproving cluck, and looked up to see a counsellor watching him. He felt his face flush. He’d forgotten that he’d never dressed.

In the end, he’d asked several groups, and though all were happy to have him, after a conference with Snape it turned out that father felt none of them good enough. They were all, as he said, “cronies”. Draco didn’t see how he expected him to find anyone who wasn’t.  
So by the time their workshops and classes had ended and dinner had started, Draco was exhausted. He found himself shoving bread into his pocket like a beggar and, ignoring their looks, left his table behind, heading for the door. Sprout made to question him, and he murmured something about a stomach ache. He must have looked bad enough to sell it, and he was asked no further questions as he made his way back to his cabin.  
The silence of the place was heavier than he could take, and he sunk onto the bed. Around the cabin was the sound of cricket and frogs, and he tried to concentrate on that, but the staleness of the place and beating of blood in his ears was too much.  
Finally, he let himself pull the sleeve of his left arm up. Taking in a deep, shaky breath, his right hand reached out blindly to the dresser, and his fingers found their way to the long, solid body of a clean screw.  
The tip met the bend of his elbow in a sharp, clearing moment, and he made himself breathe as he twirled it.  
Somewhere in the back of his head he was cursing himself for messing up this early. He’d made a promise. He made several a year. But the rest of him was in a state of relief. Even the knot, now hard and angry, was loosening its hold, even if just slightly.  
He tried not to think about Snape’s eyes on his own, worry and anger and a million other things. How his voice had rang out in frustration loud enough to make his heart stutter but not nearly as loud as he was used to. He tried not to think of his father.  
He had the urge to drag the screw, but he fought it, fought it with every fiber of his being. People would see. People would know. He could do this. He could do this.  
He breathed in again.  
How heavenly it would be to run away.  
Not from Hogwarts, but from everything else- though, he guessed, you couldn’t exactly pick one and not the other. He let himself linger on the thought for a second.  
He’d do it. If he could. He would give up Hogwarts to get away, really get away, if he knew that he could, if he knew he wouldn’t be found, if he had anyway to survive that wasn’t based on his name, his father, their plans.  
He moved the thing to another area of fresh skin.  
It didn’t help to think of it. He used to let himself, in between bad moments, but then when all the bad rushed back, it just hurt worse. It didn’t help to think of it.

~

The next day Snape had stopped by in between the networking workshop and their weekly debate gathering. Draco had followed behind him, reminding himself of a kicked dog, hoping for comfort but expecting more pain, unable to disobey their master. Though, of course, the one who truly acted as his “master” was much less likely to give him anything but the latter.  
Snape watched him as he had done the day before, but his eyes travelled his face, as if looking for evidence.  
“You are holding up well?” He stated, not quite a question in his mouth.  
“I’m... Yes.”  
Snape frowned. “I know you’re very _fond_ of the tournament, but it isn’t worth tears.”  
Draco bucked a little at the mocking tone. “I haven’t shed any for it.”  
“You were seen leaving dinner early.”  
“I was _sick_.” Draco barked.  
They stared at each other for a long, tension filled, moment. Draco finally looked away. All hope in comfort had been erased from him.  
“Then I am glad to hear you’re being mature about this.”  
“I’m not a child.”  
“No. You are not.”  
Draco turned from him, praying his annoyance didn’t burst forward in something less controlled. At the moment a tantrum didn’t feel too far below him.  
“I’m sorry for assuming,” Snape said, and Draco knew he was trying in earnest to apologize, though his tone was still cool. “I’ve forgotten that you’ve grown.”  
Draco didn’t respond.  
“The reason,” Snape continued, as if there had been argument between them. “I called you in to speak to me, was that I needed to know if you had heard about your new arrangement.”  
Draco jerked his head up. “No.”  
But it had sounded like Snape _had_.  
“It’ll be back at your cabin,” Snape said, answering his question.  
Draco turned away.  
“Don’t forget your strength,” He said just above a whisper. It sounded like both comfort and a warning of things to come. “Win with them. If any can, it would be you, Malfoy.”  
Draco stepped out, and prepared himself for the worst.

As his hand wrapped around his door of his cabin, he let his mind whirl. He opened the door slowly, measuring his breathing. Why had Snape had to say anything at all?  
Inside, his cabin mates were sitting. Across from them was a piece of paper, half folded, on the bed. They were jeering.  
Already, afraid he knew what was coming, but determined to act dignified, he strode over to the paper and plucked it off the bed.  
The knot in his stomach squeezed.  
Fucking shite. Of course.


End file.
